Varanasi Song

The moon drips ink across the sky.

I trace her path beneath the pines, and I glide….

Her cloak of light, as bright as an abalone shell, shrouds the stars, but gilds the needle tips which frame her face, as she pours her grace over me.

My arms lift in rhythm with the pulse of the night. I stroke backwards through the silky water, which has sun-drifted from Tahitian blue to the slatey color of the mirror of the sky.

And I cannot help but catch her eye.

All around me, honeysuckle tubes, yellow pistons exploding from tangerine bases, have fallen from the hedge, and their upturned faces bob amongst the sinuous threads of luminosity snaking across the silvery surface.

They remind me of a moment, in Varanasi, when I floated on the Ganges —cracked wooden stern to crackling blue helm —amidst a sea of humanity.

Between the boats drifted tiny sparks of passions and tears, dreams and hopes, worries and fears, all whispered to a hushed flame inside of an Indian Marigold fairy boat.

The river throbbed with the confusion of the wraiths of those bodies just left behind in the burning ghat.

And she also hummed with the vibrance of those who lived that day, whose sunflower saris and wine-colored dhotis, trimmed with golden edges, were pounded against the rocks in the shallows and left on the river ledge, in the sun to dry.

Or perhaps the river purred to feel the touch of the pilgrims who have come here to bathe, in her holy waters.

Or maybe she sang to the rhythm of the sitar being tuned upon her edge, gangly legs and heels tapping against the concrete banks in a melody only imagined and yet to be played.

I follow the moon.

My breath and soul fog up the night, streaming upwards, tendrils of mist caught in the light,reaching for their mother.

And I think again of that other river, so far away, and yet, right here, in my mind.

And the moon, she peers through the curtain of night and casts her glow upon the waters, which hug me tight.

And I drift…

And then, I swim again.

This poem was given to me during Sharad Purnima, said to be the birthday of the Goddess Lakshmi. Moon-bathing in her celestial glow is said to be like absorbing her nectar, which is imbued with healing powers.

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Poem and photos ©Erika Burkhalter